


Skin Deep

by RavenAurelieChoiseau



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Doubt, F/M, Fluff, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Implied Relationships, Inner Dialogue, Kissing, Love, Neck Kissing, POV First Person, Reflection, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Sex, Venus POV, moment of self-awareness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-22 23:58:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19139470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenAurelieChoiseau/pseuds/RavenAurelieChoiseau
Summary: Venus questions many things after her first night with Tig.





	Skin Deep

I don’t need a coffin to feel buried alive. Sometimes just living is enough.

-

I’m draped over Alexander like a dark canopy. With a heartbeat between us, I push forward.

He groans.

His sculpted body arches from the bed, seeking depth.

I ask. He nods.

I move as he thrusts inside me, a promise on his lips.

My word it feels incredible. Once he's found a flow it's inebriating. Slow plunges go long and sink into my sex. I'm reveling in the power. I'm making _him_ moan, too.  
He speeds up and I’m blinking back hot tears. My fingers curl and my nails dig into the taut, scalding skin beneath.  
Alexander cries out.  
I beg for more.

I lift my thighs up gently. The angle is better and I let myself play there for a while, torturing him with light brushes until he’s writhing and through bit, dusky lips begs I move faster. Go deeper.  
I want to be fucked. Hard.  
I acquiesce.

What do you want my dear sweet Alexander? I ask him. To be given release he replies.  
“Please…” he sibilates.

I lean down. Claim his mouth. Come back up with the taste of rust on my tongue. I don’t know if I’m looking at him through my eyes or studying us from above, like in some lucid dream. The point of view keeps changing. I leave my body and come back at will.

The mattress beneath dips because now I’m pumping faster, putting my weight into it and it’s just heat all over… mine and his and Sweet Jesus he calls my name. He does.  
“Venus!”  
It breaks my reverie and throws me off, I won’t lie.  He’s being kind, yet I wonder if that’s what he’s truly envisioning happening.  
IS it me?? The _real_ me??

He says it again. There’s something about love, too.

Sweet death this is.  
  
*

I pull him closer, his open mouth on my straining neck. Licking the hollow. Feeling the pulse under his probing tongue. The leather between us drags. I let my hands wander, first up his strong arms and shoulders and then down his firm back.

I ride him desperate, calling his name. “Alexander… Alexander… “

I open my eyes, drink in the moment and wade in the pool that are his sea eyes. With a whisper and a prayer on my thirsty lips I can feel it's about to happen.

I explode. I’m drowning. Struggling to get air. He’s there with me, gasping… holding on as if he could save us both from perdition.

There’s no coming back from this.

He clenches as he finishes in me, his brine warm inside my innermost place. Mine has coated our stomachs with a soft splash.

I feel his fingertips rake into my skin, my hair… his eyes are the Caribbean sea and our skin is covered in sweat and salt. He sweeps down to my cheeks but I pull his hand away.

"Alexander," I breathe. I fall into a broken heap next to him.

“I love you, Venus,” he murmurs.

I want to believe him. I do.

*

There’s a belligerent silence at 3 am. The kind that challenges you to ease your mind.

We all know quiet is a joke. Silence is mocking. Like a megaphone it takes your thoughts and sensations and amplifies them until they’re nothing but a barrage of critical self-assessments. As if I needed more tangible proof of how awful I am.

The voices rain down insults on me like blows. Some so low and sharp they make me wince as if I were truly being struck. I won't lie, there are days I think I’d prefer the physical pain over the emotional one. Bruises fade but biting contempt never does.

You’re only half a woman. That one hurts most.

I’ve been thrown aside before. Those people never loved me. Because let’s be honest… what’s there to love? Who would settle for this when they could have the real thing?! Only freaks with cash in their pockets want to be with me.   
  
I play at being confident. I play at not troubling myself with certain expectations. And yet I’m human, too. Fragile. Touched by the god of self-doubt just like all other mortals.

There it is. The self-loathing rearing its ugly head. The reflection in the glass says as much. That face doesn’t lie. Skin tight from fatigue and grief… heart-shaped lips drawn into a frown.

Who is this? I think.

Those eyes… they’re mine. Yes. But I don’t recognize the rest. The desperation and desire eating away at my core… that I understand and remember. All too well. In fact, it makes me nauseous. Double over. Food tastes like newspaper on days like this and the sting of a strong whiskey is the only thing welcome on my tongue.  
Well, except for cum.

Booze or fucking. Preferably both. Pardon my French. 

I'll take either... anything to numb the crippling anxiety slowly making my ribcage ache. I just want to be… me. But nothing works. Nothing fits.

It’s not Halloween or Carnival and yet I wear a mask. And oh how I wear it well. At least I think I do but that's a lie, too. No matter what, the carcass beneath is still mine. I can make-believe all I want but that’s the harsh reality.

This skin… too rough.

This jaw, too square.

These curves... too sharp.

Transparent husk over muscle and I think it should all be the same, or similar… what difference does it make? Deep down, at the heart… why does it matter?

_What difference does it make?!_

A world. It makes a world of difference I want to tell most people who _just don’t get it._

Something is missing within. Without.

Too much of one thing and not enough of the other.

The ghost of it is there. Sure. Always has been. I can feel it. Shutting my eyes to the light and to the truth I reach down and grab its nonexistence and Christ it’s actually….

I dream it’s who I am. Even when I dream, in my dreams that is who I am. The dream is me and the dream is that which I have been given. Or should have been.

Add to subtract.

Give to take away.

What a clusterfuck. Pardon my French.  
  
*

I don’t really want to gaze there, into the pane.

Just blink. Focus past it I tell myself. Are those raindrops or my tears? Why shed more and choke down bile and reach out to trace the outline of who isn’t being reflected?!

It’s dawn now. The slate grey sky offers greater insight. Illumination to open eye and soul. Allows for better viewing except that no one wants to catch this show.

It’d be great if who’s reflected were who I truly am. But no. It’s better not to look at all. How many years has the mirror been my enemy?

This is precisely the problem. Love and acceptance are always conditional. What happens when it’s _you_ who can’t love and accept yourself? Who do I bargain with? What do I put on the table as tribute in exchange for acquiescence?

It’s tiring.

The pretending. The obsessing over my choices. Even though none of this is born from the power of selection, it’s easier just to blame myself.

How many times have I been a people pleaser just to pick up a scrap of connection? A moment of inclusion?

I keep giving and giving and the takers take… grab… steal. Then discard me when they’re done with me. When I’m empty and the hollow is so deep… I’ve nothing more to offer and it’s soul-wrenching to turn around and find myself standing ALL alone.

“One day…” I tell myself. One day when this and one day when that… but now there's Alexander. And I don't know what to make of it. 

What a fucking clusterfuck. Pardon my French.

“I love you, Venus” Alexander murmurs from across the room. Says my name once more as he pats the empty spot next to him.  
I slowly make my way towards the bed, my silk robe billowing behind me. I smile faintly in his direction. 

"My sweet, sweet Alexander," I say, leaning in for a kiss. My breath hitches when he grins at me. His expressions are always arresting.  
"My dearest Venus. My light.”  
Oh Alexander, I think. If only. 

**Author's Note:**

> Initially published as an original work, I recently watched the last season of SoA again and thought this was fitting for what might have been going through Venus' mind when Alexander left so abruptly that morning. That scene inspired this take on it. I've taken some liberties here with the story.


End file.
